It’s like Time Magazine said to itself, “how can we make Lauren’s already spectacular morning even more spectacular? Why, with a double dose of 2004 miraculousness.”

The Sox didn’t need extra-innings to win game six but rather starting pitcher Curt Schilling bravely playing through the pain of a torn tendon sheath to pitch the Sox to victory (it would forever be known as the bloody sock game). By now the Yankees were reeling and with Johnny Damon hitting a grand slam early on in the winner-take-all game seven, New York couldn’t recover and arguably the greatest choke in sports history was complete. The Sox became the first team in MLB history to lose the first three games and win a seven-match series. They didn’t lose another game, sweeping the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series to finally end the 86 year-long curse.

So, see, Oswalt, I no longer give a frick what you do. Go ahead and meet with the fricking Rangers. It is of little consequence today.

Tim Wakefield, aka Father Time- as the media would have you believe, wants another year. See, Wake’s the definition of a utility player- the first to raise his hand and literally the last to leave the bullpen. He’s like our “Wonder Years” dad. You know. But happier and slightly less curmudgeonly. There with supportive words of wisdom and the occasional scowling wisecrack. Working quietly in the background. But highlighted in select episodes so that we’ll be guilted into telling our own fathers “thank you?” But, you know, not always integral to the front-and-center Fred Savage-Winnie plot today?

What a great show...

In other words, Tim Wakefield is a workhorse. Just one that may be working at spending his money next season, not getting ours…

“I just saw that (Jorge) Posada retired, you know it’s something that my wife and I need to talk about,” Wakefield said, according to FloridaToday.com. “I’d probably need to talk about it with my kids, too. Ultimately, I would like to obviously play for the Boston Red Sox for one more year and see where it goes.”

Anyone else imagine his voice all mopey when he says that?

Okay. Now imagine it in this voice!

With the Sox since 1995. I was eleven. MLB debut in 1992. I was six. 200 wins. 2,156 strikeouts. A bazillion smiles.

“There have been a number of clubs who have called, who have an interest in signing me but I’m kind of just weighing my options right now,” he said, obviously waiting and hoping that Boston will make an offer. “I think I can be a valuable asset to them as an insurance policy, you know a fifth or sixth starter or if something doesn’t pan out for some of the guys they have already penciled in to the rotation. You know that’s kind of been my job these last two years; I don’t have a problem doing that.”

He’s not asking to take the lead. He’s not asking for $$$. He’s not asking for fame. He’s just asking to keep playing baseball, with a humility that SOME people (ahem, Lackey. Papelbon. Probably Jacoby next year) could learn from…

And even at 45-he can still be a benefit. My thoughts? We hold onto him. Not make him part of our regular rotation. Not make him part of our bullpen. But keep him for a clutch moment when everyone’s arm is shot. Going to happen. Late this summer when the rotation is tired and we need a miracle. A hero. Someone with a good attitude. Because when Tim does rise from the ashes of everyone else’s failure- that’s when he pulls it out. That’s when he shines. And that’s when debates start about his robotness. Save him for when we need him. And let him retire in a Sox jersey. He’s earned it.

And seriously, Benny C. Call. Him. Back.

You NEVER forget to call your father. Bad things happen, Ben Cherington. Bad things. He’ll just show up at your doorstep. He’ll just show up. And demand to see your packing progress. And when you don’t have packing progress, he’ll compensate by packing your coffee. And you won’t be able to find it. And you’ll have to go to a gas station Monday morning. A GAS STATION. That’s $1.99 you’ll NEVER get back, Ben.

—-

PS- and this is random- but I miss Mike Lowell. I miss Mike Lowell so much that it hurts sometimes.

Mike Lowell would NEVER have let Soxsplosion happen. No, sir. Not Mike Lowell…

I’m okay… I’m okay…

—-

In less somber news (because that was somber, man), Curt Schilling is expressing his opinions again. This time about something waaay more relevant than his usual cup of bitters. He’s defending something video gamey that I’ve never heard of. Whatever, Curt. Did you know he owned a video game studio? Did you care?

I think I get it. I think I get why it seems to irritate these baseball players to be offered loads of money to move to a new city and play a game.

Because, see, I have an offer too, Roy Oswalt. More money. To move. And I should be celebrating. Or eating cake. Or dancing to Cheap Trick or something. But I’m not. Because I have cleaning and packing and cleaning and packing. Is that why you’re not excited? Because you know, Boston or otherwise, you still have to pack…

I think that’s it. Baseball players just don’t want to move. Because moving is horrifying. Terrifying. Annoying. Irritating. Sweaty. Gross. Inconvenient. And heavy. Oh. And expensive. So expensive. What was I talking about again? Oh, right. Roy Oswalt. And Edwin Jackson. And the rest of the baseball players of America who don’t want to move to Boston.

It’s so expensive, that I’ve resorted to some creative, if humbling tactics. Like begging. And Craigslist ads.

I'm making progress. Sorta.

But see, Roy Oswalt, you’re rich. You can pay people to do this crap for you. I looked it up. For like $1,500, you can even get someone to put everything in boxes for you. $1,500. Hmmm. What do you think they’ll do for $15? I can spare $15. $22. But that’s ALL I have in my emergency vodka fund.

Which means… I’d have to do some of this sober…

THAT could be a problem…

But not for YOU, Roy Oswalt.

You could probably drink mimosas on your porch (it’s going to have to be beer if you’re moving to Boston) and take bets on which mover splits a disk first. You could probably sit on your porch and play a rich person game. Like bridge. You could drink mimosas. Play bridge. And watch blue collar workers break themselves over your canopy bed. Do you have a canopy bed? If I was rich, I’d have a canopy bed. I think I’m going to buy a canopy bed. But I’m going to wait until I get to Raleigh so I don’t have to move it. Maybe I could donate all of my things to charity and get new things. Um. From a charity. In Raleigh. Um. Things cost money…

If you don’t want to go the professional mover route and, you know, actually accomplish something. You could hire college students. Or. Um. Me. I bet moving your things would be more interesting than moving my things. Can I have your canopy bed? You can pay me $1,500 exactly so that I can get to Raleigh.

I have a lot of girly things. Like really, really girly things. Like Miley Cyrus-esque hot pink things. I should get rid of my hot pink things. Adults don’t have hot pink things. I’m already pushing it with my Red Sox lamps…

Some free advice- NEVER watch your boyfriend’s cats for five months. Because he won’t pay you back for food like he said he would. And, when you break up and they’ve destroyed your carpet and made your house smell, the ex will just call you a bad word in a grocery store parking lot. I mean, I’ve heard that can happen. Um…

—–

So, in relevant to everyone else news, the Sox could actually get something out of this Cubs situation. I mean, -I- doubt it… but some people actually think we’ll see a payday.

Today’s the day I decide my immediate future. And we all know how much I suck at making decisions. And there’s waiting involved this time. And other assorted patience-testing factors. Apparently I’m a patience fail.

So, I’m trying to distract myself at work.

But I can’t distract myself at work, see, because it’s a slow news day. And because work is entwined in all this inner turmoil waiting drama.

What sage, smart advice. I’m going to print that out and put it on my “goodbye” notes at work.

And he’s better, guys! He’s better- he’s back- and he’s Youktastic (I’m trying to get that word to catch on since Posada ruined my last trend).

“I’ve been cleared,’’ he said. “For the past two weeks, I’ve felt great, my whole body. There are little things here and there, this time of year, you have to get going and ramp it up. I’ve started to ramp up as much as I can, and I feel great, healthy, lifting with no restrictions.’’

No restrictions, eh?

I know a gal who loves you that’s moving in two weeks. And she has heavvvvvy couches…

And, craziness, he was Beantown for a Youk’s kids event that featured Gavin DeGraw- of “Sweet Chariot” and “Not over you” acclaim… the same Gavin DeGraw who was in Boone last November. This is crazy, see- because I’ve been having these really weird dreams- kind of heavily Gavin with a little Youk thrown in. Very strange, considering I was lapse in my Youk news and didn’t know they were together. It’s like one of them is trying to contact me!

I keep dreaming he’s back in Boone and I’m interviewing him and we have these deep conversations. I bet Gavin and Youkie have deep conversations. I bet Youkie has SUCH deep conversations. Right. Back to Gavin DeGraw. Who I am now following on Twitter.

Gavin shows are a blast- probably best concert I’ve covered in the past two years (save Patti Lupone. Nothing can beat Patti Lupone)- so, if you have the opportunity to go (esp if it’s at a smallish venue like Farthing Auditorium)- do it. Do it now. If I get bored later (and Delaware still hasn’t called about the job and/or I’m still agonizing over Delaware vs Raleigh), I’ll go into a little more dream detail. Youk was there. You might have been too, actually…

~L

So. Um. Know any good jokes? Any good Youk memories? DISTRACT ME, PLEASE.

Okay. The following statement is going to sound egotistical. But it’s not. It’s just a fact. And I can’t help it if facts make me look a snob, people. Rejection? Not something that happens to me. Seriously. And it’s not because I’m beautiful (even though I like to think that I am. Hmmm. That one WAS egotistical). And it’s not because of my personality (which, by the way is SPARKLING, as you see daily). It’s because of my confidence. And this theory that I have that all guys are inherently desperate and will always, always, always buy you a drink if they’re not poor, gay or taken. Well, apparently Roy Oswalt and Edwin Jackson are poor, gay or taken. Because they’re NOT buying us drinks. WHAT IS THAT ABOUT?

Remember when we used to ooze confidence? We oozed it, Soxies. And now…

Seriously. Roy Oswalt is looking at Texas and St. Louis. TEXAS AND ST. LOUIS? What do they have that we don’t have? We are GORGEOUS. Just ask David Ortiz (who Benny STILL hasn’t signed. What the FRICK are you people doing in the front office?). We’re smart. We’re talented. And if you don’t want to go out with us, there are plenty of guys who would be lucky, no- BLESSED to have us in their lives. Pretty guys. TALLER guys.

Which brings me to Edwin Jackson. Edwin FRICKING Jackson. Lucchino’s first choice. Our “whatever” choice. And now HE might reject us for… wait for it…. THE FRICKING ORIOLES, ARE YOU KIDDING ME????

There is something going on here. Something sinister. Like a love potion. Or spinach teeth. Or something. THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME AT BARS. TWICE? In like, a day???? There’s something going on here…

And the other irrrrritttaattting thing I’m learning about rejection- is it kind of makes you want him more. All of sudden those flaws, flaws like mediocrity and weird Vulcan pitching fade away… and what’s left is this sought after pitching Adonis. All of a sudden I want Roy. And Edwin. I want them so badly, Soxies. And… um… they… um… might… not… want… me???? WHAT CAN WE SAY TO MAKE YOU LOVE US?

I have to go question my identity now. I don’t know. Maybe with ice cream? Is that what dateless people do?

Speaking of rejection, icky, icky rejection, I STILL haven’t heard back from my first choice job-wise. Got a really amazing offer on the table in Raleigh. So, definitely fleeing the mountain… So, there’s that…